


god damn ghosts

by vaultboii



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Innuendo, M/M, Reunions, Sexual Tension, angsty old men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-22 05:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12474772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultboii/pseuds/vaultboii
Summary: If he was honest, entering the building had been a mistake since he received the letter signed Gabe.Oh, well. He's made plenty of mistakes these past few years.





	god damn ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> shush i don't have another reaper76 fic in the progress, i'm not procrastinating i swear.
> 
> this was written while drinking dr pepper at 12AM i apologize if there are grammar mistakes and/or spelling errors

It was a mistake to come.

He’s gone far enough to admit that now. It’s been a stupid idea since he stepped through that gateway, and a stupid idea since the envelope arrived at the headquarters of the new Overwatch, and a really stupid idea taking Torbjorn’s car to get here. The room is scuffed, and dusty; foot-prints follow his steps as he marches along, and the occasional protest of floorboards fills the deserted casino with a sense of abandonment. _A perfect place to hide_ , he admits to himself as he pauses to scan the room for the reason he came. _Musty and dark, just like the man likes it._

He has to wait a bit. Standing amidst the ghosts of the casino, he watches the light ebb from the floorboards and chased by black to hide near windows. The dust sparkles in the dying sun and he sends a thankful prayer to Reinhardt for reminding him to wear the visor. His allergies had been acting up –something to do with this ‘old’ age Ana kept teasing him about.

The sun nearly vanishes from the room. His visor glares red and he waits.

There’s a noise. A glimpse into the darkness, and he sighs – “Oh, Reyes,” he sneers aloud, just faint enough that the man can hear him. “You’re late.”

“Morrison.” It’s him for sure; black swirls around his feet, and white billows into the alikeness of death’s mask – the Reaper springs forth from the ground almost theatrically, inches away in the red of his visor. Their thighs touch before Death’s hand comes to rest at his cheek of his visor, and he can almost taste the taunting smirk of his Reaper. “My, my, Morrison.”

“I received a letter calling to this address.” He says gruffly, but it’s still too warm to discourage his old friend’s antics, and he feels talons press to the side of his thigh. “Following the other _fifty_ letters, of course.”

He can’t see Reyes smile, but he knows the damn man wears a smirk priced as high as Mercy’s medical bills. “I’ve had some down time.”

“Imagine my surprise when the letter dictates the meeting place to be an old clubhouse, where I recall many wonderful nights having graced younger me.” He takes one hand out of his pocket, and the wrinkled paper pokes Reaper in the stomach. Reaper looks down, pleased. “Wonderful, _wonderful_ nights with others.”

“Mmm. I may have planned that one out.” Talons trace circles into his thighs, and he bites back the urge to rip off the others mask and just kiss the _shit_ out of the man, but he’s not as young as he used to be, and such movements might put out his back.

“And the letter then has the audacity to tell me to bring condoms.” He pushes the envelope against Reaper’s chest, and scoffs. “Very romantic. I think the _Phantom_ would have considered you his equal.”

Reyes sneers. “I had you at _Dear Morrison,_ and you know it, you puffed up old goat.”

The circling continues. He ignores it.

“So, what’s your great plan to seduce me back into your arms?” He steps back, and the darkness follows until he feels the old abandoned serving bar of the casino poking against him. The letter is returned to his pocket, and he keeps his hands there; he supposed caution towards the man was something he should consider, but TALON’s days were long behind the Reaper, and besides – the man hadn’t shot him in the stomach at first sight, an improvement. “Cocktails? Classical music? A bit of dancing, for old times’ sake?”

Death is curt, and his voice is thick with bantering. “I figured the letter would do the trick.”

“Condoms.” He reminds.

“Then I’ll have to compose a poem on the spot.” Reaper hums dramatically, and the noise is amplified by the hole in his mask. “A sonnet, perhaps.”

“Poetry?” He snorts. He doesn’t mean to, but Reaper just digs a talon into his thigh and the prickle of pain is revenge enough. “Ah – a sonnet. You mean to put this old man to sleep then.”

 _That was a mistake to say_ , he realizes. The mood is lost. Reaper sighs, and his shoulders slump. “You’re not that old, Jack.” He says, removes his hand and turns – the mask clicks away from his face and death looks tiredly back at him. “Some show it worse than others.”

They’ve been through this before. He recalls it vividly; the first time seeing Gabe’s broken face under that seamless white mask, the first time Gabe saw his scarred, burnt one. There’s a familiarity to the action of removing masks. Remembering his allergies, he hesitates before his fingers undo his – _Gabe could forgive a bit of a running nose, right? –_ and there they have it, two old ghosts standing in an older building, masks undone and weaknesses exposed.

And he can barely get his mask off before death moves forth and seizes his lips in that same, familiar manner.

It’s slow. It’s not the fast pace they went as before. It’s slow, and quiet, and they break it off a few times to breathe. His spine protests a bit against Gabriel’s weight, but it’s manageable. Gabe wraps his arms around his sides and hugs a bit tight, and maybe he’s hugging the man a bit tight too, but it’s been too long since they embraced. Too long since they’re done anything worthwhile. All it had been was wrathful and destructive, and so misunderstanding of everything.

“... _Gabe_.” He whispers when Gabriel lets him breathe, and he pretends to ignore the wet trickling into his sweater and coating his own cheeks. The words should be sarcastic, but they’re not – they have this quality of nostalgic to them so he forgets to sharp them. He’s breathing hard, and his hands are still on death’s waist.

Gabe buries his face into his neck and he feels wet mixed with warm tickle him. “ _Jack_.” The man answers and it’s so heart-warming, so gentle that he chokes up a bit, raises a glove and caresses the man’s head, softly running his fingers through his wilted hair. He can feel words, apologies swell up in his chest – words that should be spoken, should be said and he’s _so sorry, I’m so sorry Gabriel I –_

And he sneezes.

Gabriel starts back; they stare, and then the epiphany is gone – but the giggles threaten to swarm and then they’re laughing. Laughter fills the old casino; his hands are still around death’s shoulders, and Gabe bows his head back against his chest, and they’re still laughing, chuckles weak. Laughing as the dust settles a bit more around the ashes of the past.

 _Ah,_ yes, they laugh, and apologies are unspoken, but accepted.

And the world seems to get a little brighter.


End file.
